


Southern Comfort

by the_dala



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Comfort Sex, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-08
Updated: 2013-06-08
Packaged: 2017-12-14 08:13:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/834664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_dala/pseuds/the_dala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>McCoy's had a long day. Jim is just surprised they're not drunk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Southern Comfort

**Author's Note:**

> Archiving my old Star Trek fic from LiveJournal - this was originally published June 27th, 2009

McCoy couldn't remember the last time he'd been so glad to see his bed. And for a doctor who had worked eighteen-hour shifts for years, that was saying something.

He dropped his bag by the desk and fell face down on the mattress with a groan. Thank God he'd had the foresight to shower and change back at the lab, as there was no way he was getting up now. Hell, he couldn't even bring himself to turn back the covers.

Turning his head, he muttered at the lights until they caught his meaning and plunged the room into darkness. Well, mostly - the last of the day's sunlight still shone through the window, weak and pastel-tinted. He flailed a hand at the other side of the room, cursing the cheap manual blinds that were standard issue in Academy housing. If he got up to close them he'd have to wade through the piles of books and clothing on Jim's side of the room. McCoy decided it wasn't worth it. The sun would go away on its own. And with that thought, he succumbed to exhaustion.

The door opening and accompanying bellow of “Bones!” didn’t immediately wake him. The uniform tunic hitting him in the head did the trick, though.

“I know so many ways to hurt you,” he offered without lifting his head. He glared at his roommate – what self-respecting grown man of twenty-eight had a roommate anyway? – out of the corner of one eye.

“Come on!” Jim was grinning, his voice plaintive. Soon it would turn into a whine and then McCoy could not be held responsible for any action he might take in the interest of regaining a little peace and fucking quiet. “I want to go out and get trashed and maybe get some other people trashed, if you take my meaning.” Which could be either sex or a fist fight; with Jim it was always a toss-up. Sometimes it was both.

“So many they could teach a class in it. Shutting Jim Kirk the Fuck Up 101. I can name forty people who’d sign up right away.” Unfortunately his ability to fire such a zinger meant that he was more awake than not. Fuck. He rolled over onto his back; the pillow had grown too warm under his cheek.

“Bones.” Jim plopped down on the bed and bounced twice for good measure. McCoy's nose searched for the scent of alcohol, but apparently the idiot was simply high on life. “Get your lazy ass up.”

Scalpel, thought McCoy. Clothes hanger. Rabid possum. Hypospray full of bubonic plague. That one would be slow, but so very satisfying.

"Fuck off." He elbowed Jim in the ribs.

Maybe a bit harder than he'd meant, despite his threats, because Jim's face drooped like he'd been caught pissing on the rug. "Aw, Bones, what's your problem?"

He heaved a sigh, staring at the ceiling. "I had a shit day, that's all."

"So tell me about it." Jim kicked his boots off and stretched out, propping himself up on his elbows. There was room even in the cramped dorm bed, since McCoy had never managed to break his habit of hugging the right side.

Throwing his forearm over his eyes, he couldn't see Jim's face. But he could feel the curious gaze and the bare shoulder pressed against his own. Although he'd still rather be alone and snoring, the weight of another body beside him balanced the lumpy mattress out a little. Besides, if he didn't talk Jim would just start bouncing again.

"Didn't you notice that I never came home last night?" He knew he sounded petulant, but was too tired to modulate his tone.

Jim dug his toes into the comforter. "Didn't quite make it back myself. Nobody parties like engineers," he added by way of explanation.

McCoy snorted. "Yeah, well, while you were off hitting on slutty engineering students, I was working a double shift at the hospital. There was a big collision down at the harbor, round about midnight, and they brought the patient overflow here." He resisted the urge to tick off each event on his fingers. He also left out the fact that he'd lost a couple of those patients, which hadn't even had a chance to sink in yet. It never got easier; he'd just gotten better at pushing those blank faces to the back of his mind until he could let the guilt and sorrow wash over him in privacy. Which Jim didn't seem inclined to give him.

"We were understaffed and it's only gonna get worse - three cadets washed out this morning. One of them knocked over a cart full of supplies on her way out the door, so I had to file an incident report." He pursed his lips; clearly the kid had been at the end of her rope, but it was no excuse and it made his day that much longer. "And when I finally got back to my own terminal, I discovered a nasty message from the ex about my refusal to give some cousin of hers a tour of Ole Miss."

McCoy worried a loose sheet thread with his nails. Jim was finally quiet. He dropped his chin upon the pillow beside McCoy's head and laid a warm, dry palm on his chest. His concept of personal space had always been a little off, but McCoy was used to it after all these months. He'd have made a crack about how Jim didn't get hugged enough as a kid, except that he suspected it was true and therefore not very funny at all.

After a few minutes he should have twitched, shifted away, taken it back. Jim just moved his thumb back and forth over McCoy's shirt.

He cleared his throat as the silence and the simple, comforting gesture began to grow uncomfortable, at least on his end. The arc of Jim's thumb was sweeping dangerously close to a nipple.

"So yeah, I had a bad day." At some point his voice had lost all irritation and gone as wearied as his bones felt; nevertheless there was an edge to it because Jim would not stop touching him. The longer it went on, the less innocent it became...and the more McCoy didn't want him to stop.

It wasn't as though he'd never thought of his best friend in his bed - he maybe thought about it more than he'd care to admit, especially in the shower. But Jim was as flighty as a hummingbird and McCoy had long ago decided that, even if he proved as good as the rumors put forth, one night of Jim moaning his name could hardly be worth the fallout. He shrugged the shoulder on which Jim was leaning, feeling the steady rhythm of a resting heartbeat against his bicep. This was not the best time to be thinking of Jim moaning his name or anything else. He tried to will himself back into exhaustion but his body was wide awake now, crackling with unwanted energy wherever Jim touched him.

"You go on. I'm sure you'll find some pretty thing to keep you company."

Jim fidgeted and mumbled something, his words muffled by the pillow. It sounded like "Dunwanna."

"Huh?"

He pushed himself up, arm stretching across McCoy's shoulders, and leaned down until McCoy could see his own face reflected in wide blue eyes. That face stared back at him with mingled alarm and desire. When McCoy inhaled, it was Jim's breath he took in.

"I don't want," said Jim, his enunciation crisp, "to go anywhere."

The tip of his tongue flashed between his lips; otherwise he stayed quite still

Jim was waiting for his response. McCoy had charge of the situation. He could still stop this and salvage their friendship. He swallowed against a dry throat and gave it a shot.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Jim's cheeks were already flushed, but now they took on a deeper hue. "Shit, I'm sorry." He withdrew his arm and lifted up on one knee.

He had expected Jim to leer and grope him, not back off. Before he could think his hand shot out to grab Jim's wrist. Jim twisted, raising an eyebrow as if to say _so we're really doing this, then?_

Yeah, they really were. He'd worry about tomorrow and tomorrow's bullshit when it came, but for now he wanted to send a long fucking day off on a good note. So much for reasoned argument and self-control, he thought wryly.

"I didn't say stop."

And McCoy hadn't meant to pitch his voice that low or rumbly, but he appreciated the results. A shudder ran through the arm he gripped and Jim slowly, slowly lowered himself to the bed once more. His smile was wide and smug - McCoy almost changed his mind again just because of that, but Jim's knees were now planted firmly on either side of his hips. He was always saving his own ass by doing something sudden and clever like that.

“So long’s I don’t have to move too much, you understand,” McCoy muttered, his pulse quickening as Jim leaned down. Jim laughed and dipped his head to nuzzle under McCoy’s jaw. Although two days without shaving took McCoy way past five o’clock shadow territory, Jim didn’t seem to mind the stubble scraping his face. In fact he looked a bit like a cat rubbing up against a scratching post, all lazy ripples of muscle and sinew.

“I can take a rain check if you’re too tired to get it up,” he said with a wickedly sweet smile, ghosting warm lips over his cheek, the bridge of his nose, his furrowed brow – apparently in no hurry whatsoever.

“Why, you little son of a –” McCoy cut himself off in favor of grabbing Jim by the scruff of the neck and hauling him down to claim his mouth. Maybe it wasn’t going to be worth it if he had to do every damn little thing himself.

But Jim stopped teasing and kissed him hard, a pleased sound vibrating through McCoy's tongue and straight to his cock. A hand skimmed down to slip under the hem of his shirt, pull it off and toss it into a corner of the room. McCoy thought fleetingly of the wrinkles but now they were pressed chest to chest, skin to skin, and he went at the fly of his jeans with a vengeance.

Jim pushed his hands away, kissing a damp, quivering trail down his belly. Popping the button with an easy flick of his fingers, he looked up at McCoy with his head tilted to one side.

“Always figured I’d have to get you drunk for this.” McCoy groaned as nimble fingers wound themselves around his cock. It had been so long since anyone else had touched him that the sensation was almost too much – if he’d gripped a bit tighter, it might actually have been painful. McCoy sucked in a breath, stared at the ceiling, and tried not to lose it like he was sprawled in the backseat of his girlfriend's car after the big game.

Perched on his legs, Jim continued in the same conversational tone, “Or I’d be drunk and all over you while you manfully resisted, or we’d both be drunk so we could blame it in the bourbon later. Point is, we’re stone-cold sober and don’t you think that’s weird?”

“Shut _up_ , Jim,” McCoy hissed out between his teeth. There was a scar at the base Jim’s right forefinger from some childhood rock-climbing misadventure. He’d once gotten himself hard over thoughts of how it would feel under his tongue and now Jim was rubbing the little ridge of flesh over the swollen head of his cock, grinning as fluid dribbled over his palm. Stretching out on the bed, he bent down to lap at the drops of precome, stilling McCoy’s instinctive thrust with a firm grasp on his hips.

“If I suck your dick, will you still respect me in the morning?”

“Like I respect you now?” Considering Jim’s words had been murmured directly against his leaking slit, McCoy was proud that his voice only broke on the last syllable.

Jim licked his lips, slowly and in perfect understanding of what it did to McCoy’s fraying nerves. Then he lowered his head and began to suck in earnest.

Hot, bright pleasure thrummed through his overworked body. He fisted one hand in the sheets and ran the other through Jim’s short, coarse hair. Jim seemed to like the touch because he hummed around the cock in his mouth. His fingers went exploring, circling the base of McCoy’s shaft and curling around his balls as Jim did something obscene and wonderful with his tongue. The air grew heavy and dense as McCoy struggled to fill his lungs, weaving Jim’s name in and out of a litany of curses he wouldn’t remember uttering. His eyes fell shut, his thighs tensed over Jim’s shoulders and he came with a soft moan.

He drifted for awhile, the ringing in his ears subsiding into a gentle gray fog that covered him like a blanket. Sharp pain brought him back to his rumpled bed.

“Ow!” He rubbed at the round mark on his clavicle, glaring at his best friend. “Goddammit, Jim, did you seriously just bite me?”

Jim didn’t look the least bit repentant. “Did _you_ seriously just fall asleep on me, you selfish bastard?” His erection nudged up against McCoy’s hip, flushed red and pretty as a porno; and McCoy had the grace to feel a little ashamed of himself. Not that he would ever tell Jim that. He ran his hand over the small of Jim’s back, through the sweat pooled on his skin, before reaching down to stroke him. Jim made sharp, desperate noises against his mouth, tongue slick and heavy with the taste of McCoy’s release. His pants and briefs were still tangled around his knees and he kicked at them frantically, trying to press more of his bare skin up against McCoy.

He was debating whether he was capable of successfully going down on Jim or whether he’d just conk out again with his nose in a thatch of pubic hair when Jim solved the dilemma for him, hips jerking as he chanted, “Bones, fuck, Bones, fuck, fuck, fuck, _Bones_!”

Even as he came down from his orgasm, chest heaving, Jim grabbed for McCoy’s hand. He didn’t clean it up so much as spread the mess, so that McCoy had to lick his chin or risk waking up to dried come on his pillow.

“Mmmm, ‘s nice.” Jim wriggled closer and kissed his neck, clearly mistaking concern for personal property for affection. McCoy could feel the exhaustion seeping back under his skin, a deal more complicated now that the shine of sex had worn off.

Jim was right about one thing: it would’ve been a lot easier, come morning, if either one of them could lay claim to drunken foolishness. McCoy would welcome the devil’s own hangover if it meant he could put off acknowledging his shifting feelings. It was small comfort to learn that Jim wanted him too, since Jim wanted a hell of a lot of people. McCoy would not be surprised in the least if he jumped up, tugged his pants back on and made off for a bar and a quick fuck who wouldn't ask him for him to stay the night, much less anything else. It wouldn't be the first time Jim had scored twice in a single evening. All he'd gotten so far was a drowsy handjob from a bitter divorcee - the night was still young.

Only Jim didn't seem to realize the night was still young, because Jim was fast asleep and wrapped around him like McCoy was a particularly knobbly body pillow.

McCoy pulled the sheet up over them both, sighed one last wordless worry against the top of Jim's head, and joined him.


End file.
